Yup, my worst travel nightmare came true last week. After a two-week jaunt around India ? which was characterized by some fairly tiring travelling, innumerable rickshaw rides (at variously inflated prices) and about 200-million touts ? the proverbial hit the fan as we boarded our train at Agra for our final leg back to New Delhi's Hazrat Nizamuddin Station.

In the bustle of boarding, a train attendant was fussing around the passengers clearing away old bedding, pulling back and drawing curtains, rearranging seats and generally getting in the way. Combined with dozens of passengers climbing on and off, pakora-sellers with trays of the deep-fried snacks and chai-wallahs carrying hot kettles? it was mildly chaotic.

A moment of inattention, a flash of fatigue and fifteen seconds later? the 'attendant' had made off with my camera bag. Although, in fairness it could equally be called my passport bag, credit card bag and 8000 rupee bag? such were the contents that disappeared into the back alleys of Agra.

With the train about to depart, we had no option but to bail off onto the platform. Standing at Agra railway station, watching your train disappear down the track, with 300 rupees (about R45) in your pocket and no cash, cards or passport is certainly a curious feeling. And not necessarily one I'd care to repeat.

To cut a long and sorry tale short, there followed a delightful engagement with the intricate bureaucracy of the Indian Railway Police; an organization where correct letter diction is seemingly more important that descriptions and detective work. Never again will I moan about SAPS. At least they take a description of the suspect and make a passing effort at reclaiming your property.

After an hour or so of miscommunication (my Hindi was as fluent as their English) I finally left with something resembling a statement. It had a police stamp on; that's all I cared about.

Frantic credit card cancelling followed, but we were still stranded hours from Deli with no train ticket. And, to make matters worse, our flight was leaving in a little over 24 hours.

Then, in the first of many acts of kindness from well-meaning locals, the station master opened his own wallet to pay for our tickets back to Delhi. A representative of the one of the world's largest bureaucracies showing compassion for two stranded travellers? We were gobsmacked.

Say hello to the FRRO

A seven-hour train journey in Sleeper Class (packed, hot and colourful) back to Delhi was the start of our Amazing Race day that stretched from the Central Bank of India (stuck somewhere in a 1970s time-warp) to the SA High Commission. Hats off to the wonderful Ntombi Moyo at the Consulate: 80 minutes from application to having our temporary passports in hand. She was a life-saver. Perhaps it was the Zakumi mascot in the lobby that sped things on their way?

However, a passport in hand is only half the battle. With our entry visa in the old passport (now being dissected in a forger's office in Agra, no doubt) we had no proof of entering the country legally.

Say hello then, to the Foreigners' Regional Registration Office. Home to half of Afghanistan seeking refugee status, or so it would seem. Now if you think Home Affairs in SA is bad? you should try the FRRO in New Delhi at 2.58pm on a Friday afternoon.

We screeched through the door with two minutes to spare, and decided that camping out in the office would be the best way to ensure we got the crucial exit stamp that would let us leave the country. A few hours later? lo and behold; a new passport, complete with exit visa. All accomplished in under eight hours. Who'd have thought.

It was an eventful end to our two-week trip, but led to one valuable lesson.

Before our bag was lifted we'd become thoroughly sick of the tourist hassle, but the offers of help and kind words from the ordinary Indians we met in the last day made me realize how travelling often keeps you away from the 'real' people of a country. Phones offered without a thought of payment to allow us to call home, local travellers trying to buy us dinner, taxis refusing a higher fare and pressing rupees back into my palm, masala chai and toast at 1.30am after a long day? the thousand kindnesses were astounding.

And so ends the sorry tale. While I kicked myself all the way back to Delhi for not being more vigilant, I was somewhat pleased to discover that dozens of travellers fall victim to a similar fate each week, and at the FRRO we found other travellers who'd lost possessions in exactly the same way. The trains are a great way to travel through India, and are largely clean, efficient and safe.

But despite ticking off country #30 on this trip it proves that ? no matter how much you've travelled ? you can never be too careful. I'd show you some photos of the trip? but alas they're somewhere in the back alleys of Agra. Damn.

P.S. Agra-Delhi and Delhi-Varanasi are meant to be the worst routes for this sort of theft, so keep a special eye on your bags if you're travelling between these popular cities.

Have you come unstuck on your travels? Post your stories below?